


No Business Like It

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-10
Updated: 2008-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Elizabeth over in the wings, making distracted gestures at him with one hand while she listens to someone over her headset and scribbles something on a clipboard Cadman is holding out in front of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Business Like It

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired and encouraged by the wondrous Trin, who has all the best ideas. Thanks to dogeared for correcting my mistakes!

Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Elizabeth over in the wings, making distracted gestures at him with one hand while she listens to someone over her headset and scribbles something on a clipboard Cadman is holding out in front of her. They must be running over again, more than usual, so John turns back to what he's doing, twitches an eyebrow just a little at Ronon, and the three of them wrap it up so smoothly that no one in the audience notices that there's a whole three minutes of material they're going to miss out on.

"Give it up for Ronon Dex, folks, our Senior Most People Think I'm Black Correspondent, and of course the delightful Teyla Emmagan, Senior Female Correspondent."

The audience goes crazy, dozens of college students hyped up on enough sugar, alcohol, and pop culture enthusiasm that they need no encouragement to stamp their feet and applaud. John smirks lazily at them, encouraging them on to greater heights, and one of the frat guys in the front row seizes the opportunity to stand and yell "Teyla, you're a _fox_!", holding up a banner which proclaims that he'd be happy to be her baby daddy. Teyla smiles serenely at him, one hand resting on the curve of her belly, but the arch of her eyebrow tells John that he'll have hell to pay backstage for egging the audience on; not to mention that John Oliver won't be happy at having his rightful place usurped.

John nods at Ronon when he and Teyla stand up to make their way offstage, and then swings back around to face Camera 2. Next to it, he can see the monitor flicker on, the one that will show him what's happening in the studio at the other side of the building. "Okay, guys, that's just about it for another evening. But before we go, how about we check in with my good friend Rodney over at _The_\--"

"Hold it, hold it, just a minute," Rodney says, breaking in. On the six inch screen, John can see him in miniature, all derisive hands and squinting blue eyes, the cheap suit and skewed tie that are so different to what John wears--his uniform is always a sharply tailored black suit, no tie, and the top few shirt buttons are perpetually undone just enough to show the beginning of chest hair, the promise of collar bone.

It's all orchestrated, of course--Rodney's the pundit perpetually on the verge of an aggravated aneurysm to John's laid-back reporter, all played-up Virginia-bred charm and liquid spine. The toss isn't always scripted, but these are always the roles the two of them play; so John leans back in his seat, shifts his hips just enough so that there's a suggestion of laziness in his posture, rests his chin on one hand and says, "You got a problem there, buddy?"

"This isn't working for me," Rodney says, gesturing through the screen at John. "This, this--"

"What?" John drawls, feigning confusion. "Your show? My show?" He looks down at himself. "This suit? Because I like this suit, Rodney. Tim Gunn liked this suit."

"No," Rodney snaps, "Tim Gunn liked your ass in that suit, and that display of bad taste is why he's about to end up on Lifetime."

"We're on Comedy Central, Rodney. People on basic cable shouldn't throw stones."

"Whatever," Rodney says with the air of dismissal that had effectively ended his career in academia, despite his PhD in political science, but which somehow hadn't proved much of a barrier, "All I'm saying is, I'm tired of being tossed to; it's demeaning. Why can't I be the tosser for once?"

"I'm pretty sure that's what John Oliver calls you anyway," John says easily.

Rodney splutters, and if John had the time, he'd press further, see if he can get those twin spots of heat to appear high up on his cheekbones, but he can see that Sam has joined Elizabeth just out of sight of the cameras, and they both look impatient in a way that doesn't bode well for him. "Rodney McKay, everybody! Make sure you stay tuned, watch his show, same bat time, same bat channel, I've heard from reliable sources he might be a little tetchy about our soon-to-be-former president tonight," John says, holding his arms up to invite applause, which he gets in full. "And now here it is, your moment of Zen."

The tape starts to roll, and John unclips his mic, salutes the audience with a promise that he'll be outside the stage door to sign autographs in just a few minutes and saunters back stage, loving how cool it feels after the unforgiving glare of the lights right over his desk. He snags a bottle of water from Chuck, then heads outside and down the corridor to sit in the booth and watch as Rodney flays alive some Republican lobbyist with careful sarcasm and even more careful logic.

Cadman sticks her head around the door. "Elizabeth says she wants to see you in her office in a bit, about next week's guests, and Sam says if you don't get down to the stage door soon, the crowd's going to break it down."

"Yeah, yeah," John says, raising the water bottle in salute, and pretending he doesn't see the way Cadman sticks out her tongue at him; they both know that he'll arrive at Elizabeth's office five minutes after the end of her patience, like he always does, and the crowd outside will wait. They always do.

For now, John'd rather sit here, watch the man that he'll be waiting for in the alleyway this evening, late enough that the lights are switched off in the building and even New York City is almost quiet. The sound is muted, and next to John, Radek is adjusting the lighting as Rodney bids farewell to his first guest with barely-concealed ill-grace before he moves on to tonight's Word. He tilts his chin up as he turns to face the camera, and John represses a smile; thinks of the way Rodney is brash and brilliant without fail in front of the camera; thinks of how he's forthright and honest with five million people, and the same with John, but is still capable of keeping a secret safe between just the two of them.

He settles back in his seat and thinks of an hour from now, when he'll be able to press Rodney up against the wall in the alleyway outside, and work his hands underneath the heavy-weight wool of Rodney's coat. When John will be able to breathe in the smell of him, nip at his neck, kiss him in the cool of the autumn breeze--able to love the counterpoint of Rodney's stubble scratching against his own; the smooth way Rodney's mouth parts beneath his own; how Rodney pretends for a living, but never, ever with John, not with this honest, easy thing between them.


End file.
